


Baisers de Papa

by thecattydddy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Angst, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecattydddy/pseuds/thecattydddy
Summary: What if France had won over Canada and America instead of England? How might have things been a little different for the FACE family? Angst and AU. Enjoy, I guess, andpardon my French.





	Baisers de Papa

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. How about some angst? Awesome. Knew you'd be interested. This is a little fic I wrote, like, two years ago and for some reason think I never posted over here? So, I decided to remedy that. For the record, I had a much happier ending to this in mind where America and Canada were eventually reunited, but then I thought it'd be much better to end it here and let you suffer. Also, I left the French sentences untranslated to give the effect of what Canada is experiencing, however if you'd like me to translate them to the intended sentences then just hit me up. I'm by no means an expert in French and probably have some mistakes in there. I hope it won't take away from the story.
> 
> Enjoy and remember constructive criticism is highly encouraged!

“These places will ensure our position in the world, France,” the king assured, gesturing towards the map of the new world before them both. His eyes were wide in interest, completely entrapped by the man’s tale, “Do you know what awaits us in the new world?”

“I’ve heard from Spain,” Francis nodded, “Gold, mostly. Missionary work as well.”

“Oh, how simple to say such a thing,” the King shook his head, “France. Listen to me. The New World has far more to offer than that. There is trade there, my boy. Trade in furs and other resources we’ve yet to even consider. And even better, the other Europeans have made a nuisance of themselves to the natives, but we could earn their trust. Gain intelligence about the workings of the land. Prosper from their centuries of work instead of tearing it to pieces for a half-witted model. Surely you can understand this opportunity we’ve been presented.”

“Oh, _oui_ ,” Francis nodded, excitedly, “And… And what if there is already a nation there? Surely a civilization as such would have one?”

“Well, then… You will certainly win their favor. And when you do, you’ll be his or her big brother.”

“I will not let you down, My King.”

“I would suspect not. I expect great things from you, France. Beautiful things.”

 

* * *

 

_“My boss at my house says America’s_ **_my_ ** _little brother!”_

_“Yeah, well, the boss at_ **_my_ ** _house has been saying Amerique’s_ **_my_ ** _little brother for, like, a hundred years!”_

* * *

 

“Now come here, Amerique! Come eat some of this delicious food!” Francis tempted, his smile spreading when the tiny personification glanced up at him with his bright, sparkling eyes.He could see his long time rival and old friend sitting in his gloom cloud out of the corner of his eye. He’s certainly won, now. And then… He saw the nation’s eyes wander over to the Brit. They shifted with concern. He made a move to go speak with the Englishman. Francis should have seen it instantly, but he’d missed the cues. This boy was far more than just a scared child. He was a _protector_ by nature. He would help the weak and England looked _horribly_ pitiful at the moment. Almost so much so that Francis felt a little bad for him. Just the smallest tiniest bit. He couldn’t let the man win with his self-pity, though. No, not after he’d promised his boss he’d win _Amerique’s_ heart.

The tiny blond boy stopped short at the sound of a sniffle. Turning back, he saw Francis there, batting his tear-stained eyelashes at him, bottom lip quivering. Arthur didn’t look up. He had already lost this battle, as far as he was concerned. Alfred rushed back to the blue-eyed European’s side, patting his arm in an attempt to console him.

“What’s wrong, _Fwanse_?” the tiny boy’s voice inquired.

“For a second there,” Francis said, still sniffling a little for effect, “I thought you were gonna leave me all alone. Who would I have to protect me, then, _Amerique_?” Something seemed to click in his head and he clung to France, tightly.

“I won’t leave! _Pwomise!_ ” he assured, “ _I’ll_ protect you!”

* * *

“Why doesn’t he ever want to talk to me?” Alfred demanded. Francis followed the tiny American’s line of sight to the other boy a few feet away. He sat staring out the window, not giving notice to anyone else in the room. He was quiet and collected and polite, but he was also known to be stepped all over. For reasons Francis never understood, despite the fact they were brothers, the American and the Canadian never got along. Alfred had told him once that, before the Europeans had started arriving, they’d been very close. Inseparable, those two. Nearly to the point that France hadn’t realized they were two different people at first. Upon closer inspection, he’d realized that Matthieu had longer hair - far more like his own than the unfortunate mop Alfred had somehow inherited from Arthur - and deep purple eyes. He was quite obviously a French boy and Francis had made to take him, immediately, but there Arthur was, rearing his ugly head as per usual. He’d decided to fight harder for this one and, for a while, Matthieu had lived under British rule, establishing that horrible _English_ as his primary language and his tastes were completely shot. The boy had been drowning that Arthur’s cooking in every flavor known to man, with no regard to actual taste. Francis had nearly lost it when he caught the boy dumping spoonfuls of sugar on his bread, one afternoon. At least Alfred’s lack of taste came from his ability to eat what was was in front of him without complaint. He was such a _good_ little boy, really.

Of course, with the help of the American’s resources and convenient location, he had eventually won that war as well, taking Matthieu to live with him. Unfortunately, the months he’d spent visiting Alfred when he was in the area waging war was not shared with the Canadian. While he’d come home many a night to Alfred being a dear and tending to his wounds with warm water and love, Matthieu had only known France as the man who hurt his father figure. He was not a resentful child, but he certainly was not very friendly to them, either.

Francis wasn’t heartless, though. He let the boys see Arthur often enough and, so long as he never cooked for them, let them be. But Alfred had grown rather attached to Francis and, after one of his and Arthur’s usual bickering sessions, had promptly claimed that he didn’t like the Englishman one bit. Francis had tried to reason with him, but Alfred had been adamant, going so far as to throw a tantrum every time Francis tried to make him go visit. After a while, he gave up trying. It was no use forcing the young American to do something he didn’t want to.

Matthieu, on the other hand, loved to visit Arthur. While he usually just brooded around the house or kept to himself, it was like he was a whole different person around Arthur. He’d politely take tea with the brit and even smile every now and again. Francis had half a mind to smack Arthur every time he mistakenly called the boy _America,_ but he decided against it after the first time he’d tried to interrupt one of their tea sessions. The look the Canadian had given him had been a smile, but it’d been laced with enough venom that Francis actually felt threatened by the small child. If Alfred had been there to witness his quiet squeal of terror, he surely would have started a war.

“Perhaps he is simply a quiet boy, Alfred,” Francis reasoned, “He does not talk to many people at all.”

“He talks to _Angleterre,_ ” Alfred bit out, “And he speaks _English,_ Papa! It’s gross! I hate it!”

“Now, Alfred. There is no reason to be like that. He is still your sibling, after all. Your twin brother, at that,” Francis pointed out. He really didn’t like seeing his babies fighting - Even if one of them was only doing so passive aggressively.

“Hmm,” Alfred crossed his arms, “Yeah, well… Michelle is a better sibling… Seychelles is _way_ cooler than _Canada_ ; And prettier!”

* * *

“What’s an Australia? Is that like Austria? France really likes him,” Alfred wondered. Matthieu - No. He preferred _Matthew_. _Far_ superior than its French equivalent - had been specifically told by his _Papa_ to spend the afternoon with his brother and he couldn’t possibly have been more irritated. Or at least, he thought that until the American actually started talking. He couldn’t _actually_ believe he was related to his guy.

“Australia is a country very far south,” Matthew explained, keeping his temper, “It’s full of very dangerous creatures and is also a part of the British Empire.” Jett did remind Matthew a little of Alfred in their loudness and excess of energy, but that was where the differences ended. Jett was a far better brother than Alfred and didn’t pick fights with England for no reason. Not to mention he spoke the Queen’s English. Matthew looked forward to the day he never had to speak French or to his oaf of a brother ever again. The sooner he got out of this tiny European home and back to the new world - where he _belonged_ \- the better. Stupid American twit just _had_ to go off about being left all alone in his big scary house instead of growing up and just accepting that Francis would eventually be back. Now, they both were suffering for it.

“Ew. He’s _British_?” Alfred said it like it tasted horrible in his mouth and Matthew felt his anger flare a bit more.

“You are aware that _we_ are also British? At least, partially?”

“Pfft. As if. I wouldn’t _ever_ choose to be like that fruitcake! I’m a French American and proud of it!”

“Well isn’t that nice,” Matthew grumbled under his breath, tuning Alfred out when he started spouting off reasons why the French were far superior to everyone else.

* * *

“Papa!” Alfred whined, sitting outside his door, tears staining his face and making his baby blue eyes sparkle. Their caretaker - as Matthew had taken to calling him. He certainly wasn’t any father of his, especially recently - was locked securely in his room, slowly going insane. His bloodlust was ridiculous, comparable to the stories his father had told him about Spain during his _conquistador_ days. The revolution was getting out of control and Francis was being heavily affected by it. Even if the average citizen saw them as nothing out of the ordinary, Francis knew that they were a rank far above even the most royal human in the hierarchy. Not only was nobility sitting beyond his door, pleading him to come out, but a metaphorical _heir_ \- It was quite obvious that Francis prized Alfred as his greatest child. It was alright to Matthew. He never liked anything the nation of France had to offer, anyways.

A very tiny part of Matthew knew that if his brother kept this up, eventually Francis would come out and coddle him for a few seconds before possibly hurting him, even if he may not kill him outright. While the Canadian despised them both, he was by no means a bad person and wishing that kind of pain onto a child and that kind of regret onto a parent was not something he wanted to do. Besides, if their relationship was destroyed, Matthew would feel obligated to stay and pick up the pieces. He’d never be rid of them if _that_ happened.

“Come on,” Matthew took his brother by the hair and dragged him away from the door, kicking and screaming. Francis didn’t emerge to see what was wrong with his precious baby. He didn’t even glance out the door - possibly too absorbed in his bottle of wine to care. Alfred was still a little kid, really. He didn’t understand why his Papa wasn’t going to try and save him. He didn’t understand why his Papa wouldn’t hold him while he was cry like he always had. He just wanted love and affection and attention so badly and Matthew certainly couldn’t _hate_ him for it. Even if his childish and endearing ways made him simply a _replacement_ for Arthur, not a favorite child. That wasn’t Alfred’s fault. He’d begun to realize that at some point. He couldn’t bring himself to mean any of the things he’d thought about Alfred in the past, anymore. He didn’t hate Alfred. If anything, he was jealous.

Francis, though… Francis he could very easily hate with every fiber of his being. To Matthew, Francis _deserved_ his hatred. Or worse, even… Francis deserved his apathy. The nation drowning in his own insanity wasn’t worth the passion that came with hatred. He was barely worth Matthew’s indifference. To a man who craved attention as much as Alfred did, that was by far the worst insult he could give.

* * *

 

Alfred had locked himself away, bawling his eyes out the first few weeks. After Matthew had dragged them to stay with Arthur, he’d ran past them both and hidden himself in a dark room, traceable throughout the house by his screaming sobs. Matthew could see in Arthur’s eyes that it physically hurt him to hear the boy in such a state. After a few hours, his screaming had died down, but he still cried. All their life Alfred had been the type of kid to inhale food like he’d never seen it before and would never see it again. Even the times he’d come to visit Arthur before he’d stopped coming altogether, he’d easily eaten whatever tasteless charcoal the Englishman had served them. All of a sudden, he refused to eat, plates of food left untouched and cold hours later. He cried himself to sleep most night.

At one point, Arthur had made the brave journey back to France to collect some of their things and chew the personified nation out if he ran into him. Upon his return, he’d brought a few toys that Francis had given them. Matthew’s was a polar bear just like the one he’d been friends with at home. Using his gift that each nation was granted, he’d made sure Kumajuro was still alive, but they hadn’t spoken in a very long time. Surely, the polar bear wouldn’t even know who he was when and if he ever returned and the stupid stuffed replica was simply a reminder of that. Matthew kept it in his room at Arthur’s house out of thankfulness to the Englishman. Nothing more. 

Alfred’s was a stuffed rabbit and he, in contrast to his northern brother, clung tightly to it with all his being and never was seen without it. After he’d been given the toy, he cried a little less and ate a little more. He would scream and fight whenever Arthur tried to see him, so only Matthew was permitted in the room. He felt bad for his twin brother. All this time going by and not even a letter or anything from his Papa who had claimed so many times to love him. He felt bad that Alfred was such an optimist because every time he opened the door to Alfred’s room, he always saw a little hope die in front of him. Francis could never come back and Matthew wouldn’t care… But Alfred would. Alfred would care so much it would tear him apart. The Canadian couldn’t handle that. Not when his brother was beginning to warm up to him a little every day.

Matthew could still remember one night when everything was pitch black in the house and the wind had been blowing especially loud. He could remember when soft feet padded across the old wooden flooring and, for the first time since they’d gotten there, Alfred was standing in his room - Having come to him, first.

“Mattie,” he whispered, a nickname he’d taken to calling him since it was easier and eliminated any conflict about how the end of his full first name was pronounced.

“Alfred? What is it?” Matthew questioned, slipping out of bed and moving across the room to get a better look at his brother, who had tiny tears in his eyes.

“I think I saw a spirit,” Alfred whimpered, holding tightly onto his stuffed rabbit, “And it was howling at me. It wants to eat me, Mattie!”

“There are no spirits, Alfred.”

“There was! I saw it!” Alfred insisted, hysterically. Without a purpose to protect, Alfred had turned into even more of a cry baby than he’d already been and Matthew had somehow become responsible for him in Francis’ place.

“Come on,” Matthew took his brother by the hand and led him to his bed, “You can stay with me, tonight. I won’t let any ghosts harm you.”

“But what if they get _you_!” Alfred worried.

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Matthew gave him a look, tucking him in under the blankets and placing a kiss on his forehead like Francis had done for them, once, “Because you’re gonna watch out for me, too, right? We gotta protect each other, Alfred.”

“You… Want _me_ to protect _you_?” he questioned, blankets pulled up to his chin. Matthew nodded and Alfred broke into a smile - The first real smile since they’d gotten there, “Okay! You can count on me, Mattie! I’ll look out for you! Just like I did for Papa!”

“ _Yeah,”_ Matthew thought to himself, “ _But this time, I’m gonna protect you in return, Alfred. I promise I won’t hurt you like he did._ ”

* * *

 

Alfred grew to tolerate Arthur.

He didn’t, by any means, like him and refused to be nice to him at first, but Alfred had also always been a very happy child, when he wasn’t crying from a lack of attention. While neither Arthur nor Matthew treated him to the same affections that Francis had, they both focused a grew deal of energy on him and he’d slowly begun to heal little by little, even eating with them during supper and Matthew had nearly cried tears of joy when Arthur had gone out of his way to pick Alfred some of his favorite flowers and the American had responded with both a smile and a thank you. They were a happy little family, even if sometimes Alfred would pick fights with Arthur for no reason and even if he was constantly glued to Matthew’s side. Matthew was happier than he’d ever been. He had his brother by his side, the father he cared for watching out for him and no Frenchmen to ruin anything.

That was, until, he came back.

Up until that point, the only thing Matthew had heard of Francis’ current condition was through Arthur. It seemed he’d moved on from bloodshed to conquest thanks to the leader, Napoleon. Even with his revolutionary phase over and done with, he still hadn’t come to care for the two colonies and had accepted the fact he would never be back. Alfred was still convinced he’d return someday for them and they’d all go live happily back home with their Papa. Matthew let him dream.

The day he’d turned up, again, Matthew and Alfred had been playing with their toys. Arthur had crafted them some wooden soldiers to play with and they were having quite a blast working together to over throw the enemy. Matthew felt particularly honored when Alfred’s soldier jumped between his and an enemy in order to save him. Other than the fact Alfred kept insisting his soldier could fly, it had been quite enjoyable and they’d both been laughing.

All of a sudden, a door opened and they looked up, excepting Arthur to call into the house. The one that called, instead, make Matthew’s heart freeze, but Alfred was to his feet in an instant.

“ _Alfred? Matthieu?_ ”

“ _Papa!_ ”

“ _Alfred! Mon bébé! Papa vous a manqué beaucoup!_ ”

“ _Vous aussi, Papa! Tu m'as manqué aussi!"_ Matthew furrowed his brow together, confused. He listened to them chat, excitedly, but could barely understand any of it except a few words here or there.

_French_. His mind supplied, helpfully. They were speaking French. How could he have forgotten? Sure, they hadn’t spoken to Francis in a long time, but still, Alfred didn’t understand English… Except he did. They’d been there long enough that the American had begun to pick up on it. He was by no means an expert, but he could hold a short conversation with Matthew and ask for things from England when need be. Matthew could tell his French was still perfect, though. Like he hadn’t gone a day without using it. in truth, he probably practiced it by himself to keep it up. He’d want to impress his _Papa_ when he did come back… And here he was.

“ _Matthieu?_ ” Francis was now focused on him, leaving Alfred for a moment and the fear of being left again sparked in Alfred’s eyes and he clung to Francis’ arm as the elder nation knelt to Matthew’s eye level, “ _Tu ne vas pas à dire bonjour à ton papa?_ ”

Matthew blinked, overwhelmed and confused. The smell of wine and cheese and roses hit him and he felt he was going to be sick, “W-what?”

“ _Mattie ne parle pas français, Papa_ ,” Alfred explained, “ _Essayez de parler en anglais_.”

“ _Ne soyez pas stupide. Bien sûr, il parle français_ ,” Francis waved away his American son, “ _Allons, Matthieu. Parlez à votre papa._ ”

“In E-english?” Matthew choked out. Just like that, something in Francis’ expression changed and he stood up, Alfred still hanging into his arm for dear life and giggling.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten French,” Francis frowned, staring down at Matthew, “After I took all that time to teach you the first time?” With that, something in Matthew became very clear. Firstly, his initial shock was cleared right up. Secondly, he became furious. He _knew_ he’d promised himself he’d show the Frenchman nothing but apathy, but the fire burning in his chest cavity was enough to burn half of London down with and it was all directed at one man. How _dare_ he! How _dare_ he do that?”

“Well, aren’t you going to at least greet your _Papa_?” Francis demanded.

“You’re no father of mine,” Matthew growled.

“ _Excusez-moi?_ ”

“You’re no father of mine!” Matthew shouted, startling everyone in the room. Alfred’s eyes were the widest and he looked like he’d been the one yelled at, even if it had nothing to do with it. Letting go of Francis’ arm to land on the ground, he came up and look Matthew directly in the eye.

“What do you mean, he’s not your Papa?” Alfred questioned, “Of course he is. He’s my Papa and you’re my brother, so he _has_ to be!”

“No, Alfred. You’re my brother, but he’s not my Papa,” Matthew shook his head, “Arthur has been kind to us and has given us everything we need while _he_ was who knows where!”

“But… But… Mattie!” Alfred’s eyes filled up with tears, “You have to come home and be happy with us!”

“I don’t want to go back to France!” Matthew objected, “I want to go live in The Americas! That’s our real home, Alfred! Not here!”

“But it’s so lonely there!” Alfred pointed out.

“So come with me,” Matthew offered. Alfred looked from him to France and back, again.

“I… I… I can’t…” Alfred had small rivers trailing down his cheeks by then. Matthew frowned and pulled him into a hug.

“It’s okay, Alfred. You don’t have to come. I don’t hate you for it… I couldn’t because…” Matthew closed his eyes, forcing himself to say the next line because he may never get the chance, again, “Because I love you.” Alfred sobbed into his shoulder and Matthew clung tightly to him in return.

“Don’t make me pick!” Alfred pleaded, “I don’t wanna! I can’t! Come home with us!”

Matthew sighed, trying to pull out of his brothers grasp and only just managing to do so, “Then don’t. I’ll do it for you.” Matthew knew how much he’d wanted to be with France, again, and knew what bringing him back to the Americas would mean. He wasn’t ready to be his own country, yet. He was still too young, “You’re staying with France. I’m going back alone.”

“But, Mattie!” Alfred reached out for him, again, but Francis caught the American at the waist and threw him over his shoulder, where he kicked and screamed to be put down, “ _Non! Lâchez-moi! Je vais avec Mattie! Je veux Mattie! Lâchez-moi!_ ” Matthew and Francis locked eyes, both of them silent as Alfred fought for his freedom.

“You are sure this is what you want, _Matthieu_?” Francis questioned, “I fought very hard for you in the first place and I do not intend to go easy on you, now.”

“Yes,” Matthew replied, “I haven’t been French for a long while and I don’t intend to live under such titles, any longer. I am Canadian.”

“You will likely never see Alfred, again,” Francis warned, “Once I’ve won this war, I’ll be sure to be much stricter than I have been to knock this rebellious nature out of you.”

“ _Vous ne pouvez pas faire ça! C'est_ ** _mon_** _frère! Non!_ ” Alfred was in hysterics by then, squirming and kicking and hitting anything he could reach.

“I know.”

“Very well then. Alfred? _Nous allons à la maison_.”

“ _Non sans Mattie_!”

“ _Il n'est plus le bienvenu_.” With that, he turned on his heel, taking Alfred with him. The southern twin reach out for his brother with an expression he hadn’t seen on Alfred since he’d taken them from France in the first place. Arthur came home that evening to one child crying in the middle of the floor over his wooden soldiers and the other long gone.


End file.
